


The Story of Her

by Djinnaat



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:55:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djinnaat/pseuds/Djinnaat
Summary: Sometimes it is hard to be courageous. While we don't know what would have happened had Crane confessed his love to Abbie, we can guess what he would have been thinking. This is not a fix-it, per se, but rather the dawn of hope, for a restoration of what was lost to us April 8. 2016. You can be the judge of how this ends... (Also, a brief nod to Emerald City; like Lucas was home for Dorothy, Abbie is home for Ichabod).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Always remember: "There is none other like her, and no one can ever take her place - not in this life or the next."

I often think back to the days that I knew nothing of this new world. So many strange sights, smells, noises. It was so overwhelming, there were days that I thought I would lose my mind. And then I saw her. She looked at me with fear, confusion, and mistrust, but at the same time, there was compassion in her eyes. She was very different from the women in my day. For one, she was a woman of color in a position of authority. Such a thing was unheard of in my day. And her garments! They were totally inappropriate, and what’s more, with her slim, yet delicately curved form, would cause one to think the most inappropriate thoughts. Fate brought us together, however, two lonely, confused people reeling from devastating losses, tossed into a situation that neither of us fully understood. The one thing we did understand, however, was that we needed one another. 

It crept up on me. Oh, to be sure, I felt a certain attraction, which I believe to be normal. I am, after all, a relatively young, healthy man (or was before my untimely demise over 200 years ago), so that is no surprise. She is quite comely and charming in her own way, not in the manner of the young ingénues presented to me at the balls held at my parents’ estate, but lovely nonetheless. And fearless? There is none other like her, man or woman, long dead or yet living. The heart of a lioness, with an intellect to match. She challenges me, fires my blood, yet a mere smile from her soothes my soul like the strains of a lullaby. Is it love? Is it infatuation? Or perhaps hero worship? I know not how yet to call it, but only to say that it infuses my spirit with a sense of peace and HOME. She is home to me. Wherever she goes, I will follow. She is my muse, my salvation, and my better half. There is none other like her, and no one can ever take her place - not in this life or the next.

I often wonder: does she feel the same? Do I imbue in her a deep sense of belonging? Does she listen for my footsteps at the close of day? Does the thought of me bring a smile to her lips? What am I to her? Oh, for some, I readily know the answer. I am a project, an oddity, something to be studied and observed. I am not the sum of all my parts, but rather something to be compartmentalized into discrete components. A scholar. A soldier. An eccentric reenactor. But never just a MAN, a human being longing to be understood, to be respected, to be cherished, to be loved. She sees me as that man, I know. Sometimes I catch her looking at me when she thinks I am not looking. I see humor, affection, and trust. Once in a while, however, I see something else. Something that warms my blood. Something that gives rise to urges that have long been denied. A certain warmth, a glimmer of interest, as if the woman in her sees the man inside. 

I long to share my heart with her, but I fear that she may turn from me if I do. For what if I am wrong? What if it is just her inherent kindness that causes her to look at me thusly? But yet, I know that, if the sun fails to rise on the morrow, if I do not tell of my great esteem and care for her, I shall go to my grave regretting my cowardice. Each day presents us with more danger, more evil, and tomorrow is not promised to us, so I will swallow my pride. I will tell her of my longing for her touch, for the feel of her small form in my arms on the rare occasions that we embrace, of the joy I feel when I hear the dulcet, smoky tones of her voice. I will confess my heart’s deepest desire and hope to find favor with this fair maiden, my warrior princess. 

“Leftenant, may I have a word?”

And as I hold out my hand, she takes it and smiles.


End file.
